Friday, 30 September 2011

Mark Snow pulled up in his vanalongside a very old beech tree.The county said it had to come downand he’s a carpenter, you see.The tree was troubling a boundary wall,for a hundred years it had stood thereand Mark was eying up the wood,thinking how beautiful, thinking how rare.

Before they knew it he’d shimmied upand tied himself to its branches.Three days later he hadn’t come down -somehow he fancied his chancesof saving the tree from the chainsaw blade,a spur of the moment decision,armed with no more than a woolly hatand a can to store his fluids in.

Villagers plied him with fish and chips,sandwiches and cups of tea.People drove past and honked their horns -they said he was just like Swampy.But Mr Snow (Snoz to his friends)said, “I am not a crusty.I’m a reluctant activist,I don’t want people to recognise me.

I’ll stay up here as long as it takesand then I’ll shave my beard off.I’m normally tidy and smartly dressed,I don’t make a habit of looking a scruff.”He rose to the challenge, an ordinary chap,and this is what impressed me.He’s not like Swampy; I’m not like Snoz -My way is writing poetry.

Barking mad? Not me, says the arboreal answer to Swampy------------------------------------------------------------------------Heather Wastie is a wordsmith, humorist and musician with a rich professional life as poet, composer, singer, songwriter, keyboard player and facilitator. Find out more at Heather's website.

Thursday, 29 September 2011

So now we're rid of Tony's nasty chum,See freedom beckon! Look, we've blitzed your way!What? Preferential treatment? Oh, come come!The civilised do not do things that way.What's that? A drop of cheap petroleum?One for the road, indeed? Well, I won't sayNo to a tipple, if you're having some.

skilled, not just wise, and now is the timeto drive cars alone, build hospitals, to controltowns and people they’ve nurtured since birthto stand and fight. And believe they can

hoist the red of the flag, color of blood shedwhen they shot at soldiers and the fiery blossomsof pomegranate, the green for a new spring unfolding,girls and women planted on the ground in plain sight.

Libya’s War-Tested Women Hope to Keep New Power------------------------------------------------------------------Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

It is getting too crowded down here.Drenched in condensationhot, plump breasts squeak like wet ratsagainst the glinting, purple glass.Full lips, fat with bloodgrate on pearly razorsDry tongues claw like sandpaper at neighbours’ shirts.Clothes are melting.Toes, elbows, shoulders fill every nookFresh pinstripes and pipedreams arethrust from the depths relentlesslySalt burning raw skin.Bare fingers have only the space to tickle the polished surface.

Israeli-Palestinian talks must resume - Mideast Quartet------------------------------------------------------------------Writer of musical plays and reading resources for schools. Wannbe novelist, one completed, two more on the way. Poetry happens when moved, limericks when amused (interchangeable).

Sunday, 25 September 2011

Hello, I'm back! And hasn't Martin done a very good job of keeping things going in my absence (as, to be fair, he does in my presence)?

We've had a very sparkly week this week, with flowers and medals and lights and mirrors - who knew the news was quite so frivolous... or was it?

For starters, in 'Nimby' Anna reminded us that we have to put our non-sparkly stuff somewhere - as long as it's nowhere near us. Then Charlene Langfur showed us in 'Safe' that (unless your name's Gaddafi) those ribbons and medals are hard-fought and well-earned. US marines appeared again in a first contribution from slam poet James Schwartz celebrating the end of the 'Don't ask, don't tell' policy with it's simple but powerful message: 'As You Were'.

Helena Nolan brought us flowers on Wednesday, all the way from Kenya in 'Day 44' - a clever, unsettling poem that hints at human immigration, the package handled 'As if somebody cares' but ultimately forgotten. Another new contributer to Poetry24, Kashmiri poet Anjum Wasim Dar chose the curious subject of clever corvids to suggest we should be better able to use the tools we have for peace in 'Who Is The Cleverest Crow Of Them All?'

Well, someone who is very clever (but doesn't crow about it) is Anthony Baverstock who finished the week with his gem of a poem 'Talisman.' There were more notes from him on some of the unusual words used in the poem - do chat to him in the comments section if you're interested.

His poem serves to remind contributers that we're interested in all forms of poetry, including the 'concrete' poems, audio files and your recent additions on YouTube - as long as they link to the news!

Saturday, 24 September 2011

Author's note: As talismans like this were believed to prevent and cure disease, I thought this form would be an appropriate one in which to construct a kind of acrostic-cum-pattern poem about human ingenuity and endeavour in the current fight against HIV-AIDS.

Friday, 23 September 2011

Mirror mirror on the wallwho is the cleverest crowof them all, Caledonian crows?The elite group of species, whocan use twigs to fish insectsout of holes and crevices,whittle branches into hookstear leaves into barbed probes,are innovative problem solvers,blithely elegant,in pure dark robes?

Said the rook to the mirror'the latest research makes me shiver,people will not consider us thirsty,hungry, capable or free, since itsproven, we were never fools.The corvid family, ravens, rooks,magpies, jackdaws and jays, werecautious, cooperative, concernedand cool, tis no argument as scientistssay, and I just read the news on BBC, that'clever crows can use three tools'

Mirror mirror, now what's your suggestion?The crisis deepens, descending to recession.Should it be a round table conference,summit or a mediation, or a call for a corvidcrow collection? Beware for they can locatehidden secrets in succession, and solveserious problems from reflective reflections.

With so much warfare and so many deadNo one knows where Ghaddafi has fled.Tis worthwhile that research has ledto the discovery of problem solvers pool,a mixture of brown, grey and black,if humans and animals have failed,lets call the corvid crows, to usethe tools to make peace instead.

Crows use mirrors to find food-------------------------------------Anjum Wasim Dar was born in Srinagar Kashmir. A refugee migrant to Pakistan, she waseducated at St Annes Convent Rawalpindi. She is a published and award winning poet.

Thursday, 22 September 2011

Gay military members come out and celebrate--------------------------------------------------------Poet and slam performer, James Schwartz strives for the simplicity of Cavafy mixed with modern gay wordplay. His book, The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America, was published by in Group Press in 2011.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

In the decade-old war, there is still more. An ambush in the night,a firefight in the Afghan hills,an area not to be entered until cleared.Marines call it a kill zone.

How can any of us avoid thinking of danger hereis a mystery.In spite of all the riskshow the Corporal's gunfire provided the cover for the escape.

"I did what I did," he says.

Everyone in the village was trapped.So, he went in to save them, 37 men and women,Aghans and soldiers.The red-haired Kentucky man, a grown-up boy really,Dakota Meyer wanted to follow ordersbut not when it came to this.Against orders, he went backagain and again,saved all but four of the soldiers, mourning their loss even now, as ifhis compassion is all he has left to give.

On the day of the ambush the kill zone was too dangeous to enterbut he went there anyway to save his friends.He rode into the gunfire of the 50 insurgents, into the town with all its lights on.

"You do not think about it until you look back," he says.

The hazel-eyed man doing what he believes we all wanted him to do,save everyone left behindin the only way he knew how, and now,the baby-blue ribbon draped around his neck, the dark gold starhanging on the chest of the young soldier come this far. home again,

Sunday, 18 September 2011

On the day following the 10th anniversary of 9/11, we published Lavinia Kumar's prose poem, World Trade Center. Lavinia, herself, was unsure as to whether this form would suit Poetry24. It did, perfectly.

From remembering an atrocity, to living with a potential tragedy, David Francis Barker's Today Marcoule raised the nuclear question, following an explosion at the French site.

On Wednesday I penned Collage of Conviction, unable to let the passing of Richard Hamilton go without a mention. He did, after all, design the cover and poster for The Beatles' White Album. Enough said.

Philip Challinor came up trumps with Davey's Not For Turning, even though our Mr Cameron is probably on course to match Thatcher's high water mark unemployment figures of the 80s.

Newcomer, Laurie Kolp, states that she doesn't usually stand for any monkey business while writing, but when she read the story of how a monkey's sweet tooth was its downfall, she couldn't resist sending us Chocolate Bites.

You'll be pleased to know that Clare has now returned, safe and sound, from her travels and, as ever, she and I are putting out the call for your poems. Without them, there would be no Poetry24.

Thursday, 15 September 2011

Alas, the proles again have let us down!We still have failed to make our message clear.They sit at home, or vandalise the town -Why can they not get out and volunteer?Alas for chavs unworthy of our vision!Societally small, they cannot seeThat we intend to stick with our decisionAnd stay on course for Maggie's million three.

Monday, 12 September 2011

They fell straight down. A slow breath out. The nation held its breath. The New York smell lingered for weeks. Ten years later still a memory. We remember Chris playing defense on soccer fields. Gone. His wife and children know memory in pictures, video, the sound of his voice, his laugh. Soldiers in countries filled with pale brown earth now gone, too.

We will show their names when their picturesare available –

TV shows the family picture before faces and limbs were splattered by bullets, IEDs. And no pictures or names of those bedridden in hospitals or homes, without legs, arms, working brains. Without jobs. No pictures of those not American either.

Around 4 Million Afghans face unemployment

nearly ten years later. Crops of poppies grown by Afghan men, they dodge bullets. The pile of war dollars – even taller than the world trade centers – spent. Gone. Papers floated downtown while the holes grew that day, but no-one would read them.

Five more NATO soldiers killed in Kabul –

a headline forgotten by afternoon. Soldiers have memories of dust storms in Iraq and deep blinding snow in Afghan mountains. They picture their partners in dirt. Cars park and people walk where smashed dust was. Chris’s name is on the memorial plaque at Ground Zero.

After a decade of war, the west is weak and in retreatEditor's note: This is the first prose poem we've published, so it's worth remembering, we will consider poetry in any form. Lavinia tells us, "...somehow, it came out that way." We're pleased it did.----------------------------------------------------------------Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

Last week it was Shaun Parrin's Sunday that took the place of our regular review and, as Old St Martin's was getting a new ring of bells, executives at Tesco were preoccupied with the tinkling of cash registers, having finally gained a foothold in Harrogate. Anna mourned the capitulation with The Last Bastion.

Speaking of a foothold, or lack of one, on Tuesday, David Francis Barker's offering invited the Scottish Conservatives to Go Now, in view of the party's dwindling support, north of the border.

I contributed my five penny worth with Twiss. Test Pilot, Peter Twiss, who became the fastest man on earth on Saturday, 10 March, 1956, died aged 90 years. A tribute to this true hero of our times seemed fitting in a world where celebrity status has been so devalued.

Lavinia Kumar offered us a wonderful political spoof from the USA, with Tea Party Debacle, as Congress returned from recess. Still stateside, New Jersey resident, David Caruso, offered us a reflective New York Sonnet, as the shadow of 9/11 extends to ten years.

A couple of days ago, I read a poem that almost came to Poetry24. It met all the requirements, was nicely crafted and news-related, but sadly it never arrived at our door. I was left wondering how many of you, out 'there', have almost sent us poems for consideration. If it helps, remember Poetry24 is about encouraging people to write poetry, inspired by events taking place in the world around them. It's about you capturing a moment and inviting others to see it as you did.

Please don't let you work become an almost poem. We'd love to see it here.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

Reality, a computer program to open or close,options available where to reside,Virtual Reality, a place to dream, a place to hide,Financial Reality,the only asset, paper passed back and forth, again and again, until we die, grab the mouse and let’s give it a try.

Getting Here From There-------------------------------David plays guitar and writes haiku. He lives in New Jersey. He can't see Russia from his front porch but most nights he can see the moon. He invites you to browse on over to DavidHaiku.com.

Thursday, 8 September 2011

The Tea Party toddlers threw the US in the sea --they had a tantrum -- stamped their little feet with gleebut while they were sucking their thumbs with their blankiestheir parents were squabbling until they were cranky.

First came the Cantor, a wild shooter on his horseand then came Boehner hoping he could get a divorce --but the Tea Party todds kept on wanting the treatsthey’d been promised if they ate up all of their meat.

Yep, the TPs as candidates had eaten rubber chickenand bathed in PAC money till their hearts were quickened –so they used divide and rule, and McConnell’s bullying gleeand invited the Cripps and the Bloods over to tea.

So now the boat is sinking and they are too little to swimand at least one of their parents is sick of their whims.Meanwhile, the dollar is burning, the lifeguards gone homeand everyone had hoped that September was a new dawn.

But, now the super committee comes armed with its spearsto throw at the White House and the man they can’t cheer.Still, the TPs want to get behind those old wooden desks,remember? - they once held congressmen we could respect.

Meanwhile jobs are going overboard, just watch them gone‘cos states must fire civil servants – oh, but the lobbyists fawnsince the TPs want low taxes for the increasingly richwho still haven’t created jobs for the lower class – a glitch.

So, here comes the GOP – who made deficits and wars -looking for WMDs behind every door,and while candidates postulate that the tea plants did not evolve,they have sprinted to create more problems than they can solve.

Returning From Recess to a Full Plate----------------------------------------------Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Air speed record pilot Peter Twiss dies-----------------------------------------------Martin is a writer, and former columnist. He has twice been editor of Viewpoint (a forum for INDEPENDENT internal comment within the University of Southampton), and is co-founder of Poetry24.

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

If you are going, go now; let's not prolong the painor pretend that the past means nothing at all.Oh, I know – go back fifty years and MacMillan could count on fifty percent, even up there. But then came the oil, that all too English woman branding herself British while handbagging the North and the Left wherever they raised their ruddy heads. Even I realised you'd had enough by then. So go with my blessing and I'll reclaim the baggage; you know it won't go to waste. We'll recycle it down here where they still fall for it each time in our leafy shires,so prime for development – but that's another tale.

Monday, 5 September 2011

Oh Harrogate, my Harrogate
(tis where I live in grand estate).
The game is up,
the deed almost done,
Harrogate has lost,
big business won,
no more shall we
in peace
dine alfresco,
for we shall
have to abide
the noise from
Tesco.

The only postcode without a Tesco – but for how much longer?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Anna is passionate about her world and writes about her feelings in both poetry and prose. She lives in the UK and for personal reasons, prefers to remain just 'Anna.'

Sunday, 4 September 2011

If reason were not enough to stay insideencased in the blue moon chillof what weekend remains,the expression on her facesaid we will be joining themnot would, or could or maybe.

The cat stole its way from the void,that endless repetitive space whichexisted when we never could agree;When the hunter gatherer required more thanan interest rate for barter and exchange;When the science of numerologymeant more than a new car every three years;When two houses meant two mortgagesbut then two is supposed to be prime.

And besides we didn't need a new sofaor fridge, or freezer, video, DVD or telly.

Old St Martin’s gets its new ring of bellsEditor's note: We rarely receive a 'Sunday' poem, so this week's Review is making way. Normal Sunday service will be resumed next weekend.-------------------------------------------------Shaun is a non-professional award winning photographer and published writer.

Friday, 2 September 2011

All that is asked is that you not go mad.Which is not sucha tough request,surely?But they will not be coming aroundto see how we are doing.There is important work to be doneto mend the damaged economyand broken businesses,who line the streets piteouslyasking for help.And there are majorcircuses to stagebut no bread for you.Yet they are allthat stand between us and the devilswho would overwhelm usand steal our things.Yes, be scared citizensbut DO NOT ask for help.Just do not go madthere's a good chap.

Thursday, 1 September 2011

He's got a gunHe's got a gun a guitarand a hair cut like CheHe thrusts up defiant v-signsat streaking vapour trailsthe evidence of an enemy he's yet to meetHe's got a gun eye to eye

All the same he unloads his weaponHe's got a gun into the no-fly zoneHe's waving it on highat this illusive foesinging songs like a Dylan or Baezand wishing on stars aboveHe's got a gun the scarlet stripes of the horizon

Tomorrow he's the heroHe's got a gun He can sensethe smell of changewhich wafts in his stubbled facethis monster of coolarraigned against a monster unseenHe's got a gun who has made him all he is